


Dear Santa...

by telperion_15



Category: Primeval
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Fic Exchange, Humor, M/M, Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen knows what he wants for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Santa...

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for lukadreaming as part of the primeval_denial Secret Santa exchange 2010, for the prompt 'What happens when the SF lads get together for Christmas...!'.
> 
> A note about OCs:  
> Primeval fandom on LiveJournal has generated a number of fanon OCs, created by different authors and freely used by others, to the extent that some of them have now taken on lives of their own. Of the ones that appear in this fic, Lyle, Ditzy, blade, Kermit and Finn belong to fredbassett, and Claire, Cara and Sadie belong to lukadreaming.
> 
> Thanks to fififolle for the beta.

The first inkling Stephen had that something was going on was the faint sound of jingle bells from outside, followed by a muffled, but still loud, cry of, “Ho, ho, ho!”  
  
The next moment, the living room door was flung open and Santa Claus burst into the room. Or rather, Jon Lyle dressed as Santa Claus. And if the black combat boots showing beneath the hem of the red robe, and the laughing hazel eyes showing above the fluffy white beard, weren’t enough to verify the identification, the fact that Lyle had disappeared about ten minutes earlier looking very much like he was up to something definitely clinched it.  
  
“Ho, ho, ho!” bellowed Lyle-as-Santa. “Merry Christmas everybody!”  
  
“Merry Christmas, Lyle!” called back Finn, grinning.  
  
“Lyle? Who is this Lyle you speak of? I’m Santa, and I come bearing gifts.” Lyle shook the sack he had slung over his shoulder vigorously, and the contents clanked together in a rather promising way.  
  
“Whose hilarious idea was this?” Stephen asked the world at large, as Lyle dropped the sack in front of Finn and Kermit and started rummaging around in it, producing a six-pack of beer a few seconds later.  
  
“Thought it up all by himself, if you can believe that,” Ditzy replied from the sofa opposite.  
  
“Yep, turns out there might be some initiative and originality in that head of his, after all,” Ryan commented from his position by the dining table, where he was wrestling open yet another box of mince pies. It was about the fifth one they’d gone through already, and the night was still young. For a moment Stephen wondered whether the soldiers were going to eat them out of house and home (and just in time for Christmas, too), but then consoled himself with the thought that, although it was Stephen’s first time experiencing it, it wasn’t Ryan’s first time hosting the traditional Special Forces pre-Christmas knees-up, and therefore his lover was sure to have laid on sufficient catering.  
  
Lyle didn’t allow the taunts to pull him out of character, although Stephen was fairly sure he’d never seen Santa Claus flip anyone the finger before.  
  
Having distributed alcohol in various forms to Finn, Kermit, Ditzy, Blade, and Ryan, Lyle plonked himself down on an old kitchen chair that was standing near Stephen (there were only so many Special Forces soldiers you could fit on one sofa and one armchair, after all), and gave Stephen a mock-apologetic look.  
  
“I’m sorry, young man, but I appear to have run out of presents.” He held up the now empty and drooping sack as evidence.  
  
“I’m sure I’ll survive,” Stephen replied wryly.  
  
But Lyle shook his head. “Now, now, it wouldn’t be fair if all the other boys got a present and you didn’t. I’ll tell you what – how about you come and sit yourself on my knee, tell me what you’d like for Christmas, and Santa will see what he can do.”  
  
“I think he’s a bit big to be sitting on anyone’s knee,” Ryan said.  
  
Stephen grinned, and then shrugged. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”  
  
“Nonsense.” Lyle patted his knee. “Up you hop.”  
  
Stephen hesitated, and then laughed and did as he was told. He didn’t miss the slight grimace that crossed Lyle’s face as all six foot of Stephen Hart landed on his knee, but the jolly expression was back on Lyle’s face a moment later.  
  
“Come on then, young man, tell Santa what you’d like for Christmas.”  
  
Stephen thought for a minute, sticking out the tip of his tongue and crossing his eyes in a parody of every little boy sitting on Santa’s knee in every Christmas movie he’d ever seen. “Well, there are one or two things, Santa… I’d like a new tranquilliser rifle to replace the one that the mammoth stood on last week. I’d like some new running shoes – the really good ones with shock absorbing technology. A subscription to the Journal of Palaeontology would be great. I’d also love some box-sets of The West Wing. Oh, and I saw this gorgeous leather jacket when I was out the other day – that’d be great.”  
  
“Well, well, that’s quite a lot, isn’t it,” said Lyle. “Anything else?”  
  
Stephen pasted the most innocent expression he could muster on to his face, and smiled sweetly. “Just one thing,” he said. “Later I’d like my hot soldier boyfriend to take me upstairs and fuck me through the mattress.”  
  
Lyle choked suddenly, his face turning red as Stephen grinned at him. Across from them Ditzy was doubled over on the sofa, laughing uproariously, while next him Blade was smiling in amusement. Finn and Kermit were laughing too, although since they’d already polished off half a six-pack of beer each, it wasn’t clear if they actually knew what they were laughing at. Even Ryan was chuckling, although he was doing his best to direct a stern glare at Stephen at the same time.  
  
“Thank you very much. I really don’t need you broadcasting details of our sex life to all and sundry.”  
  
“Not even when I call you my hot soldier boyfriend?” Stephen asked.  
  
“Not even then,” Ryan told him, although he was still smiling.  
  
“Yes, well, erm…I’m not sure Santa can help you with that one,” Lyle said, his blush, if anything, deepening. Really, Stephen reflected, for a hardened Special Forces lieutenant, Lyle was ridiculously easy to embarrass. Especially since he was himself in a relationship with James Lester, and Stephen suspected he wasn’t going to be the only one getting fucked into the mattress by his hot soldier boyfriend in the run-up to Christmas.  
  
“Mince pie, anyone?” Ryan asked, deflecting everyone’s attention from Stephen and Lyle for a moment.  
  
“I’ll have one, boss,” replied Blade.  
  
“Here you go, then. Catch.” Ryan tossed a pie across the room to Blade, who snatched it out of the air with perfect precision, and then proceeded to start dissecting it and its foil wrapping with a large knife that he suddenly produced from somewhere about his person.  
  
“Oh, go on then, I’ll have one too,” Stephen said.  
  
“Come and get it then,” said Ryan.  
  
Stephen scowled, then removed himself from Lyle’s knee, stifling a grin at the lieutenant’s audible sigh of relief, and made his way over to Ryan. “How come I have to fetch my own?” he grumbled.  
  
“Because you can’t disembowel me from a distance of fifteen feet with a range of oversized cutlery,” Ryan shot back. “Plus, I don’t trust you not to fumble the catch, and I really don’t want to be picking mince pie crumbs off the rug for the rest of Christmas.”  
  
Pouting, Stephen sulkily grabbed a mince pie from the plate on the table and started to eat it, making sure to purposely drop as many crumbs as he could on the floor in the process.   
  
Ryan rolled his eyes long-sufferingly, and then leaned over and gave Stephen a quick kiss on the lips, his tongue licking away a smear of mincemeat from the corner of Stephen’s mouth. “Don’t sulk,” he admonished.  
  
Finn and Kermit both wolf-whistled at the display of affection, and Ditzy laughed and said, “Careful, you’ll be embarrassing Jon even more.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Ryan muttered, just as Lyle declared, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” in a lofty tone.  
  
Stephen snorted and looked over his shoulder at Lyle. Much to his surprise, the Santa costume had disappeared, and a far more normal-looking Lyle was slouching in his seat (well, as much as anyone could slouch on an old wooden kitchen chair), demolishing a mince pie that he seemed to have mysteriously got hold of from somewhere.  
  
“Santa had to bail, I see,” Stephen commented.  
  
“Yep,” Lyle said unconcernedly. “He said he was sorry, but the reindeer were getting antsy. Rudolph in particular was kicking up a fuss.”  
  
“Did he say anything about whether I’d be getting any of the things I asked for before he left?” Stephen enquired mischievously, and had the satisfaction of seeing Lyle choke on his next mouthful of pie, spraying crumbs across the room as he coughed.  
  
“Oh, shut up, the pair of you, and have another drink,” Ryan said. “Sadie’s left us a batch of her famous mulled wine. I’ll go and start heating it up.”  
  
The mulled wine went down a treat, as did the rest of the beer ‘Santa Claus’ had brought, and the bottle of nicely matured whisky that Cutter had given Stephen as an early Christmas present. Stephen had long since stopped being astonished at the lead-lined stomachs of Special Forces soldiers – on that combination, and quantity, of alcohol, anyone else would have been paralytic, and most likely worshipping the porcelain god from now until morning.  
  
But even with their iron constitutions, as the even wore on, Kermit and Finn became more and more rowdy, and even Lyle was starting to demonstrate some slippage as he fought to remain upright in his chair. Ditzy, as designated driver for himself and Kermit, had only had one beer and one glass of mulled wine, at least a couple of hours earlier, while Blade, despite having consumed the same heinous amounts of alcohol as most of his team-mates, still appeared remarkably clear-eyed and sober. Stephen couldn’t decide whether that was impressive or terrifying.  
  
“I think it’s about time we pushed off,” Ditzy said to Ryan, when the clock was just shy of midnight. “I’d better get him,” he pointed to Kermit, “home before Cara – or more importantly, Claire – comes to find out what’s become of us.” He grinned. “Not that I suspect Mrs. Cooper is going to be terribly impressed when I dump that on her doorstep. And her parents are going to be even less impressed when they turn up to find a hungover son-in-law waiting to greet them tomorrow.”  
  
Stephen and Ryan chuckled. “Good of you to offer to drive him,” Stephen said. “I don’t envy you in the slightest.”  
  
“You’re kidding, right?” Ditzy replied. “I didn’t offer, I was told. There was no way Claire was having Cara slog all the way down here to pick up her completely rat-arsed husband at the time of night – and those are Claire’s words, not mine, by the way. So I was ‘volunteered’ for the job.”  
  
“It’s a shame you can’t take those two with you,” Ryan said, glancing at Kermit and Finn. “If I have to listen to them murdering Away in a Manger one more time, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”  
  
Right on cue, the musically-challenged pair burst into an ‘interesting’ rendition of Silent Night. Stephen winced.  
  
“Just kick ‘em out,” said Ditzy bluntly. “Or if you won’t, I’ll do it for you.” He raised his voice in order to be heard over the caterwauling. “Oi! You two! Pack it in, it’s time to go. We’ve imposed on our hosts’ hospitality long enough.”  
  
Lyle stirred and looked sulky. “But we only have to stagger next door. There’s no reason to leave yet.”  
  
Stephen looked at Ryan in alarm. He’d completely forgotten that Sadie had offered the use of her house next door for some of the lads to bunk down in, since she was staying with her sister over Christmas. Ryan had tried to decline the kind offer, knowing that it was most likely a terrible idea, but Sadie had been adamant, and in the end he’d had to acquiesce, however reluctantly.  
  
But now, the expression on Ryan's face matching Stephen’s one of horror, he looked like he was desperately trying to think of a way to avoid letting a bunch of drunken Special Forces soldiers loose in his neighbour’s home.  
  
“Don’t worry, boss,” Blade said, correctly interpreting Stephen and Ryan’s concern. “I won’t let them damage anything.” He’d pulled out one of his knives again, and was casually tossing it end over end, catching it in exactly the right place each time to avoid slicing open his wrist.  
  
It was this demonstration of fully functioning hand-eye coordination that seemed to convince Ryan. “All right,” he said. “But keep an eye on them, will you? Because if anything gets broken I’ll have to break them.”  
  
“No problem, boss.” Blade put his knife away, and went over to Finn, pulling the other soldier to his feet and slinging one of his arms across his shoulders for support.  
  
“But why do we have to go now?” Lyle protested. “It’s still early.”  
  
“Let’s put it this way,” Ryan said, attempting to look stern. “Either you toddle off now, of you help me and Stephen with the clearing up.”  
  
“Definitely time to go,” Lyle said instantly. He stood up, wobbled a bit, and grinned. “Solid as a rock,” he announced.  
  
Stephen and Ryan rolled their eyes in unison. “Go on, get out of here, the lot of you,” Ryan said. He looked at Lyle, Blade, and Finn. “If you’re very good, there might be bacon butties in the morning to cure your hangovers.”  
  
“Don’t get hangovers,” Lyle proclaimed.  
  
Ryan snorted. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “We’ll just forget about that little incident at the end of training exercises last March shall we? And the results of the party you had after your last promotion. And the…”  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Lyle said rudely, sticking his tongue out.  
  
Ryan laughed. “That’s, shut up, sir,” he said. “But I’ll let it pass for once.” He gave Lyle a shove. “Off you go. Leave Stephen and me to get a good night’s sleep.” He winked at Lyle, and the lieutenant turned a bit a pink and made a beeline for the door, albeit a non-too-straight one.  
  
“Have a good Christmas, Ryan,” Ditzy said, as he shepherded Kermit out the door.  
  
“Thanks, you too. Say hi to Claire and Cara for me.”  
  
“Will do.”  
  
Ditzy and Kermit vanished into the night. Blade gave Stephen and Ryan a quick nod, and then dragged Finn after them. Lyle was the last to leave, and as he pulled the door shut behind him Stephen heard a final muffled “Ho, ho, ho!”  
  
“I’m definitely going to need to go and check on Sadie’s place tomorrow,” Ryan said ruefully, after a moment’s amused silence.  
  
“Blade’ll keep them in line,” Stephen said. He looked around the living room. “Perhaps we should worry about this place before we start getting too concerned about Sadie’s.”  
  
It did look a little like a Christmas-food-and-drink bomb had gone off in Ryan’s living room. There were empty glasses and beer cans everywhere, mince pie tins and crumbs littering the floor (despite Ryan’s best efforts to prevent it), little piles of colourful cellophane wrapping on the arms of the sofa and armchair, where Lyle, Ditzy, and Blade had polished off most of a tin of Quality Street between them, and fuck knew what other rubbish making the place look like a refuse heap.  
  
Ryan sighed. “I’m beginning to wish we hadn’t invoked the hosts’ rule of not drinking too much,” he said. “If we were drunk I’d be much less bothered about all this mess.” He grimaced. “I suppose we should tidy up some of this now. Particularly after we threatened Jon with it. Although we could leave it for the morning…”  
  
“When it will look twice as bad,” Stephen argued. “Come on, let’s just break the back of it. You gather up all the dirty plates and glasses and take them into the kitchen, and I’ll grab a bin bag and pick up the worst of the rubbish.”  
  
Stephen’s plan was a good one, and inside of twenty minutes they had the room looking basically habitable again. Ryan had piled all the washing up neatly on the kitchen worktop, drawing the line at actually doing it at this time of night, and Stephen had decided that hoovering up the crumbs on the floor could also wait until the morning.  
  
“Those bloody lads are a menace, the lot of them,” Ryan declared. “Remind me of this next year, when I decide it’s a good idea to invite them round again.”  
  
“I bet you’ve said the same thing every year after having them round,” Stephen said. He thought for a moment. “Still, maybe we should place an embargo on all family and friends next Christmas,” he suggested. “Make it just the two of us.”  
  
Ryan nodded. “Brilliant idea.” Then a speculative smile curled his lips. “It’s just the two of us now, you know.”  
  
Stephen looked around them exaggeratedly. “So it is.” He grinned at his lover. “Does this mean one of my Christmas wishes might be about to come true?”  
  
“If you’re referring to the one about being fucked through the mattress, that could be arranged,” Ryan said. “As for the others, you’ll just have to wait until Christmas day and see what Santa brings you.”  
  
“I think I might be on Santa’s naughty list now though,” replied Stephen, sticking his lower lip out in a mock-pout. Then he grinned again. “Still, I suppose the fucking is enough to be going on with.”  
  
“Glad to hear it,” said Ryan. He made a shooing motion. “Well, go on then, upstairs with you.”  
  
They made it to the bedroom in double quick time, and as soon as they were through the door, Stephen pulled Ryan to him, kissing him hungrily and wriggling against Ryan’s body, letting his lover feel that his cock was already taking a decided interest in proceedings.  
  
Ryan kissed him back for a moment or two, and then pulled back far enough that he could grab the hem of Stephen’s t-shirt and yank it off over his head. Running his hand teasingly across Stephen’s torso, he caught Stephen’s left nipple between his finger and thumb, squeezing it tightly enough to make Stephen gasp, and his cock swell even more inside his jeans.  
  
“Get the rest of your kit off and get on the bed,” Ryan instructed, an order Stephen was only too happy to obey.  
  
He scrambled out of his jeans, socks, and underwear, and climbed on to the bed, kneeling on top of the duvet and letting his head drop down until it was pillowed on his crossed arms, leaving his arse in the air in a clear invitation.  
  
“Now there’s a pretty picture,” Ryan commented appreciatively.   
  
There were a few rustles as Ryan removed his own clothing, and then the opening and closing of a drawer as Ryan located the lube. Then the mattress dipped as Ryan knelt on it behind Stephen, and one of his hands nudged Stephen’s knees a little further apart.  
  
There was a pause in which Stephen heard a click as Ryan flipped open the bottle of lube, and then he was groaning as two fingers, slick but firm, were pushed into him, unrelenting as they worked him open.  
  
He pushed back against the intrusion, signalling his eagerness. “Fuck me, please,” he heard himself say.  
  
Ryan chuckled. “Your wish is my command.”  
  
The fingers were removed, and seconds later Ryan’s hand grasped Stephen’s hips in a vice-like grip, and he felt Ryan’s cock pressing inexorably against his entrance, splitting him open far more than the minimal preparation had.  
  
Ryan wasn’t moving fast enough - Stephen shoved back again, impaling himself on Ryan’s cock, craving the stretch and burn. “Come on,” he said hoarsely.  
  
The grip on his hips tightened even more, if that were possible, and Stephen knew he would have bruises there come tomorrow. But right at this moment he didn’t care – leaving him little time to adjust to the cock inside him, Ryan had started thrusting, pounding into him hard and fast, fucking him in exactly the way Stephen wanted.  
  
Every snap of Ryan’s hips sent enough force through Stephen’s body to press his face against his cushioning arms and the duvet. His moans and pleas were muffled against skin and fabric, but Ryan seemed to understand the sense of them, as he changed his angle slightly without his rhythm ever faltering, and Stephen suddenly saw fireworks behind his eyes as Ryan’s cock drove against his prostate.  
  
He cursed, the word choked off in a sudden gasp as Ryan repeated the action, and fire danced along Stephen’s nerve endings again.  
  
But it wasn’t enough to make him come, and Stephen took the risk of unbending one of his arms and reaching for his cock, swinging hard and heavy between his legs. Grasping it, he began to pump as fast as he could and still keep his balance, keening as he felt himself teetering on the edge of orgasm, and then crying aloud as another vicious thrust from Ryan sent him tumbling over the edge, his cock pulsing over his hand and the duvet, his arse clenching around Ryan’s cock hard enough to pull Ryan’s climax from him unexpectedly, his lover coming with a hoarse, “Fuck,” as he raggedly thrust through his own orgasm.  
  
Stephen didn’t quite remember slumping to the mattress, and he didn’t quite realise that Ryan was draped over his back until the weight was suddenly removed, and he hissed as Ryan’s cock slipped free of his abused arse.  
  
“You okay?” Ryan asked.  
  
“Mmmmmm,” said Stephen inarticulately.  
  
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”  
  
Stephen felt Ryan’s hand stroke its way down his back, his fingers sliding along the cleft of Stephen’s arse to play with his loose, stretched hole. Stephen shuddered, the delicious sensation almost too much.  
  
“You’re lying in the wet patch, you know,” Ryan observed, sounding amused.  
  
“Don’t care,” Stephen mumbled. He knew he was smiling dopily, high on the afterglow. “That was just what I wanted for Christmas.”  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Opening a cupboard, Stephen bent over gingerly to grab some plates out of it, feeling his body twinge in some interesting places. He’d got exactly the present he wanted last night, but he suspected that he wouldn’t be sitting down comfortably until Boxing Day at the earliest.  
  
As he set the plates on the table, there was a knock on the back door.  
  
“Get that, will you?” Ryan said, deftly turning the rashers of bacon he had in a frying pan with a spatula.  
  
Stephen pulled open the door to find Blade outside. He was alone.  
  
“Morning, boss.”  
  
“Morning. Smell breakfast cooking, did you?”  
  
Blade smiled slightly. “Something like that.”  
  
“How are you feeling this morning?” Stephen asked, standing back to let Blade into the kitchen.  
  
“Fine, thanks.”  
  
“He’s always fine,” Ryan said. “Jon may claim he never gets hangovers, but Blade here is the one who’s always been immune.”  
  
“Lucky,” said Stephen jealously.  
  
Ryan grinned. “So how are the others?”  
  
“Still dead to the world,” Blade told him.  
  
“No, we’re not,” a voice called.  
  
Stephen looked out of the still open door to see Lyle and Finn coming up the path. They were awake, but that was about all that could be said for them. As it turned out, ‘dead to the world’ hadn’t been all that inaccurate a description after all.  
  
“You look like crap, Jon,” Ryan said, by way of a greeting.  
  
“I feel like crap,” Lyle replied. Finn didn’t say anything, but merely sat down at the kitchen table, holding his head in his hands.  
  
“That’d better be nearly ready,” Lyle continued, nodding at Ryan’s frying pan, and then looking very much like he was regretting even that small action.  
  
“It is.”  
  
“Good. That’s about the only thing that’s going to cure me right now.”  
  
“Shouldn’t have drunk so much last night, should you.”  
  
“Yes, thank you, voice of reason.”  
  
Stephen decided it was about time to interrupt the sniping. “Coffee, anyone?” he asked quickly.  
  
“God, yes,” Lyle said fervently. Blade nodded, and Finn stirred himself enough to stick one thumb up in the affirmative.  
  
Stephen poured out mugs of extremely strong, extremely black, coffee for everyone, topping up his own and Ryan’s as well. As he set the coffee in front of Lyle and the others, Ryan turned off the heat under his frying pan, retrieved a dish of already cooked bacon from the oven where it had been keeping warm, and plonked the whole lot in the middle of the table along with a huge mountain of sliced bread, and bottles of tomato ketchup and brown sauce.  
  
There was silence for several moments while everyone assembled their butties and tucked in.  
  
“Heaven,” muttered Lyle, around a mouthful of bacon. Then he noticed that Stephen hadn’t sat down at the table, and was instead leaning carefully against one of the kitchen units. “Not joining us, Hart?” he asked.  
  
“He prefers standing at the moment,” Ryan said.  
  
Lyle looked confused for a moment, and then as Stephen grinned and winked at him, blushed.  
  
“Yep,” Stephen said taking great glee in Lyle’s discomfort. “Santa apparently managed to grant one of my Christmas wishes early. Aren’t I a lucky boy?”


End file.
